A Vision of Shangri La
by satirical
Summary: It's my job to fulfill your dreams for an hour or two, Inuyasha. I'm just trying to get by. Still, that didn't stop me from falling for you. KagInuKikSess, AU
1. Kagome: Prologue

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**A Vision of Shangri-la**

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_Summary_: It's my job to fulfill your dreams for an hour or two, Inuyasha; I'm just trying to get by. Still, that didn't stop me from falling for you. (Kag-Inu-Kik-Sess, AU)

_Disclaimer_: Everything Inu-Yasha belongs to Rumiko Takahashi; only the plot belongs to me.

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**_Prologue_**

"So—what got you into this business?"

I must have started, or betrayed my surprise in some other physical manner; Naraku Onigumo began to sneer.

"What do you mean?" I asked, in a perfectly removed and polite tone.

"Well, _Kiki_," he said derisively, "you may be pretty, but you're can't hold a candle to Kikyou. So—why are you in the business of hostessing?"

"Isn't that a rude question?"

"True—but I've purchased your hour, and you must entertain me. Don't avoid it."

I sighed, tucking a strand of my straight, dark wig behind my ear. It was a move made out-of-character, and I realized only when I had looked up again from my fruit cocktail that Naraku-san had picked up on it. Seeing no other choice, I told him the truth, albeit a very general one.

"I've a striking resemblance to Kikyou. I decided to use it to my advantage. After all, why else would anyone be in this line of business? Now," I smiled in Kikyou's sweet, detached manner, "shall we continue the charade? It's what you paid me for."

"Pretty little girl, I paid you to entertain me. Unlike some of the other _customers_ of this enterprise, I'm not looking to play out an escapist fantasy. I'm not looking for a copy of a model who's devoid of personality."

I bit my lip to prevent myself from throwing, "Then go to some other hostess bar!" at the rude man before me. Despite this, I knew that those in my profession depended on the satisfaction of their clients. I made an effort to be charming, to play the part.

"Then," I asked, "what other game would you prefer to indulge in?"

His smile twisted his face, which could've been handsome on another man, another personality, into a visage as ugly as an oni mask. "You won't go far in the entertainment business with such a blunt attitude, Kiki. A man wishes to be mysterious and unreadable at all times; you should play into that desire if you want to capture the adulation of many."

"But I don't need to, do I?" I replied cheekily. I was beginning to dislike this Naraku. "Kikyou has already done it. I'm just an imitation."

He leaned forward, strands of his hair falling to shield his face insidiously. "There's no use comparing yourself to a model like her; you're just a hostess, a glorified whore at best."

I smiled back at him. Then I lifted my cocktail and splashed its contents in his face. He sputtered, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry, the hour must be cut short due to illness on the part of the entertainment," I said, not bothering to hide my bitterness. "Please, do come again."

While Naraku Onigumo still wiped his face indignantly, I rose and spun out of the room.

-

_Author's Note:_ Frankly, I like both Kagome and Kikyou; I won't bash either, or stand any bashing (especially not of Kikyou, because she's so very close to my heart). For those reading my fic Storm Song, I can't promise updates _soon_, but they'll come. A Vision of Shangri-la is an idea that came into being one night while I was reading up on Japanese culture instead of writing my English essay; its setting is contemporary—I hope no one is too confused. Its focuses are on Kagome, Inuyasha, Kikyou, and Sesshoumaru, with highlights of supporting characters; final pairings have not been decided yet.


	2. Pretty Girls Can't

**1:  
Pretty Girls Can't Make Ethical Decisions**

**- **

In class, my phone began to buzz. I tried to ignore it as it vibrated in my pocket, but it was loud enough that the few students around me gave me pointed glares. I pulled it out to turn it off; _Inu-Hanyou_ flashed on the screen in colorful letters. I gave a gasp.

The professor, a severe, impatient man, paused in his lecture to inquire, "Something wrong, miss?"

I flushed scarlet. "No, sensei."

"Then put it away." Minor chuckling reverberated through the lecture hall. The professor smiled sardonically at his star pupils, who were clustered at the front of the hall. "It's to bad kids these days don't learn to leave their toys at home in elementary school." The laughter swelled.

My cheeks radiating warmth, I typed a quick message back to him, then turned off the cell phone and stowed it in my backpack. The next hour was spent in agitation, counting the minutes until I could run out of the room and turn the cell back on. The professor droned about standard deviations and data retrievals; I sighed, foot tapping a rapid staccato on the ground. Stooped over the projector, he looked like eternity. I tucked away my notebook and pencil, not bothering to take notes because I knew I wouldn't be able to learn anything today. When the bell rang, I was the first to the door; I'd gone so quickly I'd almost forgotten my messenger bag.

My next class wasn't for another hour. I glanced at my watch. 1: 24 pm. There was no reason for him to be calling me this early. Drawing my phone out of my bag, I scurried over to the large arbor in front of the library. In the solitude, I turned on my cell and, without skipping a beat, called his number. I'd memorized it by now, after those many nights I'd tapped it on my keypad and prayed for the courage to hit _send_.

Finger shaking, I finally did it.

It rang. I waited, deliriously smiling. It rang four times… five. Then it went to voicemail.

"Oy, it's Inuyasha. You know what to do." _Beeeeeep_.

I bit my lip. I was so disappointed that he hadn't picked up. "Afternoon, Inuyasha," I said in a changed voice—

Kiki's voice. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to answer your call. I'll be at G-Club tonight and tomorrow night, so ifyou'd like to schedule a dinner, Friday is the earliest I can make it. Come see me soon."

I hung up. Spending a couple moments regretting my bad luck and trying to calm my pulse, I hadn't noticed Hojo Akitoki creep up behind me. "Higurashi," he waved. "Hey!"

Damn. I'd been avoiding Hojo for a while now, ever since my roommate Yuka had set us up on a blind double date. It was awkward, particularly because one of my clients almost recognized me at the dinner. Hojo apparently hadn't picked up that I wasn't interested, but I could find it in me to tell him outright. Lately, I'd been taking different routes to get to my classes so I wouldn't meet him in the halls. He was a cute boy, tall, intelligent, and a year older than me. He was sweet and chivalrous; he also happened to be the densest, most clueless guy I knew.

Well, no. That title belonged to Inuyasha. Hojo is a close second.

"Good afternoon, Hojo," I said with a little bow.

"How are you? I heard from Yuka you were sick the last time, and you couldn't come see the movie with us."

Actually, I'd been working, but since Yuka had no idea where I went those five nights a week, I figured that was her excuse. I replied vaguely, "Yeah. It sucked. I'm better now. How are you?"

"I'm doing very well," Hojo grinned. "I wanted to ask you if you had any plans this Saturday."

"Um, actually yes. I've been sick so much, I need to catch up on my homework." I couldn't believe I lied so glibly. I licked my lips and smiled uncomfortably at him.

"That's too bad. I was going to invite you to Disneyland, but I understand that you'll need the time for more serious work. Keep it up, Higurashi!" He gave me a thumbs-up sign. I sweatdropped; who still did that? "Well, I gotta get to class now… oh, one more thing. Yesterday I was in Shinjuku with my brother, and I thought I saw someone who looked like you. Only, that person also looked a lot like Kikyou—you know, the model—and I thought, it couldn't be Higurashi, because the girl has straighter and longer hair. But then she laughed, and I swear to God it sounded like you. The man with her, though, called her Kiki. Weird, huh? You weren't in Shinjuku, right?"

My heart jumped to my throat. I was sure I'd begun to sweat.

"No, no, of course not!" I laughed nervously. "I was sick last night, too. Went to the doctor."

"Ah. I didn't think it was you. Especially not seeing an older man," Hojo replied, satisfied. He checked his watch, then waved at me. "Class is starting—gotta run. We really should go have lunch sometime, Higurashi!"

I stared at his retreating back, my breathing still short. How had he seen me? I'd been so careful to arrange dinner dates with clients in the back of the restaurant, where there weren't any windows. I must have been careless last night, I sighed.

Imagining the scandal that could come on Waseda University if one of their students was revealed to be a hostess, I knew I had to keep my identity under wraps. But it was getting harder and harder as G-Club was becoming more popular, and my clients increased. Soon, I knew, I would have to stop playing the part of Kiki and imitating Kikyou, and find another job. I'd already been a hostess for six months longer than I'd planned to in the beginning—and it was all because of Inuyasha. Despite everything I had to take into consideration, I couldn't leave G-Club because I couldn't leave him.

How, I wondered, did I get into this mess?

-

_Shinjuku Ward, Tokyo –  
__One Year Earlier_

I came out of a stunningly unsuccessful job interview reeling; I'd just been mocked in front of a panel of trustees, my responsibility had been questioned (as had the authenticity of my hair), my resume ridiculed, and my clothing choice blasted. I came away from it with a deep prejudice against beauty product retail; who knew the job of cashier girl required super-posh taste and super-developed sucking-up abilities?

I didn't noticed the man standing in front of me until he spoke up. "Why the long face?" he asked, his blue eyes twinkling.

I glanced at him. _Eww, a strange perv is trying to flirt with me…_

He recognized my expression. He also recognized something else. "You're not _Kikyou_, are you?" he demanded.

"No," I said, a little too insolently. That question had been the first one the panel of beauty product vendors had asked me when I went in; they hadn't believed me when I said no, and only when I convinced them I was too young and too short to be Kikyou did they lose interest.

The man apologized. "Ah, I see now; you couldn't possibly be her—you're too pretty."

I stared at him. What sort of pick-up line was that.

He flashed me a charming smile and drew out a business card from nowhere.

_Houshi Miroku,_ it read. _Manager and Proprietor of Glamour H.C._

"H.C.?"

"Hostess Club. I couldn't help but notice your distressed expression as you came out of the ghastly chamber of interrogation," he dramatized. "I've come to offer you an alternate—"

"Not interested." I held the card out, back toward him.

"Really now?" He said, refusing to take it back. Deviously, he leaned close and whispered, "We provide a very high salary; it's high class."

"What kind of girl do you take me to be?" I glared at him, throwing his card in his face.

"A beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated one whose wit and manner no doubt prostrate many lecherous old men before your charm."

"That didn't make sense grammatically," I told him, and started toward the elevator.

Houshi didn't stop. He swiped his card from off the floor and came after me. "Someone of your caliber should use your assets to further your needs."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, stabbing the _down_ button with my thumb.

He sighed, looking down at me. "You're obviously in college, and a pretty high class one from the quality of your bag," he said. "You wouldn't be looking for a job unless you needed money, because intelligent students like you want to spend their time studying. You were obviously flamed by that monkey-faced tribunal in there. So I've got a bigger, better offer for you."

"To entertain and sleep with men? No thanks." I lifted my shoulders. "Although, you're right about the judges being monkey-faced."

He grinned rakishly.

"One: we have strict rules against… _pillow business_. Most of our hostesses don't—it's part of their job description to be elusive and never give in to the customer's demands. Two; entertain means talking over dinner—you can do that, can't you? It's not difficult; a bit of overt flirting and laughing at their inane jokes…. Three—we're a high-class club; out of all the HCs, we've got the most rules concerning treatment of our ladies. We don't tolerate disrespect…"

"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Hostessing is a job that other people _find_ through ads. Why are you asking me when it's obvious I _don't want to?_"

"Because you are breathtakingly beautiful," he smiled. "And I think you know why."

_Shit_. It was because I looked like that model, wasn't it? I was about to tell him to go to hell when the elevator doors slid open with a _ding_. I slid past the solicitor and pressed the lobby button. He was still standing in the doorway; he stopped the closing metal slab with his foot, saying seriously, "Think about it. It's a perfectly respectable job, in our case."

Houshi Miroku flicked out another card and tucked it into my hand. Then he bowed with a flourish and backed out of the doorway. The elevator was allowed to proceed downward.

I stared at the card I held. It ran against all my morals to keep this; I was a girl with _values_, not some kogal looking for a couple hundred extra yen.

But, staring at the gold-embossed business card with the elegant script, I found myself unwilling to crumble it or throw it away. With a sense of shame, I slid it into my messenger bag. Still blushing from guilt at how easily Houshi Miroku had bypassed my sense of right and wrong when the elevator door opened, I almost crashed into an older man in my stupor.

"Oh! I apologize," I nodded to him.

I turned and strode toward the glass doors of the fashion building. In the middle of the lobby I stopped, looked back, and stared at the elevators. It hadn't registered with me until then that I'd almost crashed into an absolutely gorgeous man. He must have been a model or actor; he stood at past six feet and had pale, marble-like skin. What most surprised me about him, what had made me whirl and fall still, was his long snowy hair. White as the face of the moon, and buoyant as the celestial robes, it reached past the small of his back. In a way, he was strangely revolting in his splendor—no man should be that pretty.

I chalked it up to the eerie, appearance-oriented mindset of fashion and beauty houses, forgetting the encounter almost as quickly as it happened.

A week later, amid frequent and harassing demands from the landlady for the month's rent, and the encroaching final exam fee, I placed a call to Houshi Miroku. He sounded genuinely pleased I'd replied, and handed me a 50,000 yen advance. Stunned and gratified, I began working the next Monday in a long, straight wig and borrowed designer clothing, under the pseudonym "Kiki."

I was an instant hit.


	3. Those Beautiful People

**2:  
Those Beautiful People**

**- **

The elevator door slid open. Taisho Sesshoumaru emerged from the metal trap with his attention at the spot where the girl had knocked into him a couple moments before. His shirt was a little wrinkled, he decided, but it wasn't noticeable to the typical eye. Still, he glowered, the little girl should have watched where she was going.

"Ah, it's Milord!" A raucous laugh sounded to his right. "Long time no see, Sesshoumaru. How was Europe for you? Not cultured enough?"

Sesshoumaru merely cast a stoic glance at the man who'd spoken. The other was dressed in a ridiculous fur-lined suit, and, standing two inches shorter than Taisho himself, Sesshoumaru could successfully look down his nose at him. Little triumphs like these, he thought archly, are what makes life enjoyable.

"Kouga, what do you want?"

"You get right to it, don't you, old man?"

Kouga gestured for Sesshoumaru to follow him into the private meeting room he'd been standing by. Located on the topmost floor of the Tokyo headquarters of Wolf Cosmetics was Kouga's executive meeting rooms and office. This particular space was so small it was almost cramped, with light wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall. Immediately, Sesshoumaru was gripped with paranoia and claustrophobia. He glanced toward the ceiling for cameras, and as he walked toward the back of the room, felt under the table for buttons, switches, or recording devices.

"Ah, Milord, don't you trust me?" the other smirked. "The room isn't bugged, and we're on the twentieth floor. You won't be shot, killed, or arrested. No need to worry. You know, I can't seem to get in touch with your dog-breath cousin lately. Do you know what happened to him?"

Sesshoumaru lifted a vase and peered inside. "Inuyasha? Why would I?"

Kouga curled his lip in wrath. "He's supposed to be supporting me in raising Wolf Cosmetics, but now he's gone and disappeared again. Where the hell does he go?"

"Probably soul-searching," interrupted another. Debonair, with a gold hoop in his ear and a casual, confident walk, Houshi Miroku entered. His hands were stuffed in his black slacks. "Stop worrying, Kouga. He'll turn up eventually. You know how Inuyasha is." The lothario and businessman inclined his head to Sesshoumaru. "Welcome back into the country, Milord."

"'Milord, Milord,'" scowled Sesshoumaru, at last sliding himself into a plush seat at the table, "Why do you still insist on using childish nicknames?"

Kouga laughed again, but his humor didn't reach his eyes. "Because, Sesshoumaru, you still insist on acting like you've got a stick up your ass."

Miroku chuckled.

Sesshoumaru's face tightened. As he reclined in the chair, the empty space where his left arm should have been was glaringly and disturbingly obvious. The others tried to hid their discomfort, but their eyes kept glancing surreptitiously over at his empty, fluttering sleeve. Sesshoumaru noticed; his narrowed eyes burned holes through Miroku and Kouga, who had to turn their attentions from the limp sleeve to each other.

The two realized they had gone too far in teasing the proud Taisho, one of the last surviving descendants of a long line of rulers of Western Japan. Miroku decided to change topics before the older man went demonic.

"We asked for your help because we knew you had to come back to Japan sometime," Miroku said, his usually charming face growing more serious, "and we won't settle for anything but the best. I'm also an investor in Wolf Cosmetics; we're all eager for the company to ease into the market smoothly and release its products with a minimum of bad press and a maximum of purchase desire."

"You want to ask for my guidance in advertising," Sesshoumaru state, his fingers steepling.

Kouga leaned forward secretively. "Yes, in promotion. And not with just any old model. No, we've secured an interview with Kikyou and her agent. If they agree to represent us as the face of Wolf Cosmetics…."

Sesshoumaru frowned. "What's significant about this Kikyou?"

Kouga nodded to Miroku, who slid a folder across the table. Sesshoumaru flipped it open; the top picture depicted a slim, tall woman with near-impossible proportions and a placid, unsmiling expression.

"This Kikyou," Kouga said quietly, "was discovered on the streets in Paris in a Vogue shoot. The head photographer became so obsessed with her that he put her in the majority of the photos he took, despite his contract. Vogue used the photos—she became a French sensation." Sesshoumaru flipped through the folder, glancing at the succession of fashion photographs. "Because she is Japanese, we naturally fell in love with her too. She's on the rise right now; if we capitalize on her fame, Wolf Cosmetics could gain the boost in sales we need to carry us through this year."

Sesshoumaru closed the binder. "Shrewd. What, then, do you require my services for?"

"Fame." Miroku slid the folder back toward him. "You have talent, sure, but your reputation and your presence at the meeting will secure us Kikyou."

"Her style doesn't seem to point to the demographic you'd be looking for," Sesshoumaru pointed out. "Wolf Cosmetics is dominated by feral colors and vibrant products—she's pale, skinny."

"She has enough of a reputation to make it work though. And we'd use only our pinkest, lightest colors on her." Kouga grinned, his incisors flashing in the light. "So, Milord, what do you think? Was this worth coming back from London for?"

"I would have come back, anyway, fool." Sesshoumaru stood, his features unreadable. "What can you offer me?"

"An income. An entrance back into the promotional world of Japan. You've been gone for a long time, Sesshoumaru, and that woman Kagura has been spreading slander while you were gone." Kouga folded his arms over his chest. "What do you think?"

The man with the silver hair paused. He seemed to deliberate for a moment. Then, he snarled, "Take Inuyasha out of the picture—I don't want to deal with him."

Kouga nodded too quickly. "It's agreed." He held out his hand for Sesshoumaru to shake. Sesshoumaru ignored it.

"I'll require a profile of Kikyou by tomorrow afternoon, a hundred thousand yen up front, and executive power," Sesshoumaru demanded. "Provide them."

He strode out of the room, leaving a smell of cedar behind.

"Awful cologne," Miroku commented. The Monk, as he was called ironically, frowned. "I'm guessing the 'take Inuyasha out of the picture' part falls to me?"

Kouga, when he smiled, had a lupine cast to his features. He continually reminded Miroku of a wild wolf, an Alpha who lived only to be in charge. In another life, the Monk mused, he could've been.

"What else, man?"

Miroku turned to go.

"Houshi!"

"Yeah?"

The CEO stuffed his fists into his fur-lined jacket. He had a look of profound confusion and frustration scrawled across his face. "So Taisho Sesshoumaru really doesn't know about Inuyasha and Kikyou?"

"I told you," Miroku said tiredly, "that they hate each other. They don't keep in contact. He really doesn't know, and it wouldn't be wise to tell."

"How do you plan to distract Inuyasha while we shoot promotional ads and commercials with her then?"

Houshi Miroku smiled affably. "I have my ways, Kouga. Are you going to question them?"

Kouga made a disgusted noise. "I'd rather not know, Monk. I'll come visit Yura and Ayame some time, 'kay? Tell Jak to be on the lookout for me."

"Sure, just make sure your card doesn't bounce this time!"

Kouga swore under his breath as Miroku left; that crafty bastard could make any insult sound playful.


	4. Catfights

**3:  
Catfights**

**- **

My first days as a hostess were tumultuous. There were unspoken rules and so much etiquette I had to learn, as they say in music, by ear. It helped that Houshi-san kept an eye out for me, as did the bodyguard/bouncer of the club, Miwa Sango. Still, there were times where I was positive I wouldn't go back again, where I swore off hostessing for good.

The first was when I met Yura. Yura of the Hair, they called her, because she had beautiful, changeable wigs that complemented her moods and fascinated her clients. She was naturally beautiful, with a delicate face; what also turned men on about her was her raw sex appeal. She oozed sensuality; she never, however, gave in. That made her the most appealing hostess of G-Club. She was supposed to resemble the American actress Natalie Portman, or especially her character in the movie _Closer_, but Yura was such a force of eroticism that eventually, her very presence overshadowed any reference to the movie.

Being a superior hostess, however, gave her also a sense of entitlement. She regularly barbed insults toward her fellow workers. Our mama-san, our manager-apparent, did nothing to curb Yura's behavior.

"Bit common, isn't she?" Yura insinuated the first time I visited the club. The other hostesses lifted their eyebrows.

"Now, Yura," Houshi Miroku smiled, "be nice." He slipped his arm around her waist and led her into her personal dressing room. Sango shot daggers at their retreating backs.

"You've just got to bear her," she told me. She and another hostess, Shiori, were informing me of what behavior I should avoid.

_Don't cross your legs to often. Don't act like you have too much of a mind of your own, but also don't seem like a nitwit. That's not who you're trying to emulate—to pass in their imaginations as Kikyou, you must act like Kikyou. Be enigmatic. Smile, but don't grin. Nod, and laugh, but never uproariously. Don't leave them to pour their own drinks. Your job is to pour the drinks for them. Don't _ever_ look bored…_

"Out of all of us, Yura is the best at acting like she's fallen in love with the customer. That's why she has so many patrons—she's the biggest earner, the top hostess, for G-Club. On a bad week, she can bring in about three million yen." Sango scowled, pulling out a small makeup kit.

"What?! Three million yen?" I tried not to wince as Shiori zipped up my dress.

"If you're successful," Shiori murmured, "you can bring in more."

"By the way," I groaned as Sango pattered my face with powder, "why isn't the Mama-san doing all this orientation?"

Sango and Shiori exchanged a significant look. "She's busy. She may be a mama-san, and typically mama-sans are retired hostesses, but ours has one _special_ customer. Tonight's her night off; she spends her time with her… special patron. They've been together for seven years now, I think," Shiori answered. "At least, that's what I've been told."

Comprehension dawned; there are some people who actually stay in the hostess business for years and years! I wondered, with a gnawing fear, whether or not I also would get sucked into the cycle. I made a promise to myself then to get out at six months, by which time I would have enough to pay my bills—I'd find a decent job then.

Sango observed me. She could have been a hostess, I thought. She certainly was pretty enough, and tall enough. But her sweetness might just be a cover for her athleticism—under her sheer sleeves, I could see the ripples of her muscles; she seemed suited for her business. She caught me looking.

"It's a much steadier job kicking men out of the club than being in the club," she answered, anticipating my unspoken question. Then, as if offending, she left my dressing table.

Shiori patted my shoulder awkwardly. "Don't mind Sango," she said. "She's just upset over a certain someone paying attention to Yura."

I cocked my head. "Who?"

Shiori grinned, looking more and more like a schoolgirl. "Who do you think?"

I shrugged.

"Figure it out, Kagome," the other hostess said slyly.

That first night, I was treated well by the company men who had come to G-Club. They'd been told I was "a virgin," and amid the blushing laughter, they'd looked at me with something like awe and respect. In a room with Shiori, Yura (going by her own name), and Ayame, I felt safe; the men knocked down their wine and sang karaoke to the applause and fawning of the women. I joined, feeling like a sham beside the others, who looked genuinely adoring of their customers.

Yura, I decided as I watched her smile and flutter at one inebriated Director of the Board, was particularly good. And then I realized who Sango was bitter over. A laugh bubbled out of me—it came as one of the men was just beginning to sing. No one had joked, no one had contributed any witticisms—my laugh was out of place. Conversations paused. The attention shifted onto me.

"Kiki," Yura said coldly, "what's so funny?"

I flushed. "Nothing," I muttered. I looked down at my hands and my mind scrambled for an excuse. "I… I just… I just found everything so exciting. So fun. I thought it'd be different."

Personally, I deemed it a terrible excuse. But when I looked up again, I saw that I had captured the attention of all of the men in the room. They came by me and offered to entertain me more—one even pulled me up to spin me dancing around the room. I read the amazed look on Shiori's face: I'd done well. Even Ayame, who'd appeared distant at first, was impressed.

Yura, by contrast, appeared thunderous.

"What a brilliant move, Kagome," Shiori pronounced as soon as we retreated to the powdering room. "I'm amazed—you picked up on how to appeal to the men's sense of masculinity really quickly…"

"A fluke." Yura entered; her animated expression was now flat and ugly with contempt. "Don't acknowledge something that was completely accidental."

"It may have been accidental, but it was still the right move," Shiori retorted.

Yura shrugged. She leaned over the counter to reapply her lipstick. "Miroku must have lost his wits," she said venomously, "to put an amateur in the same room as me."

I agreed with her wholly, and I didn't bother to hide it. "You're right," I told her. Her attention riveted onto me sharply. "He should realize no one new would be able to handle you."

Yura snarled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Interpret it how you want," I told her as I pushed out the door.

Ayame leaned against the wall outside; she glanced at me as I came out. "Don't antagonize Yura."

"I don't care," I replied. "I hate people like her."

The door squeaked open. Shiori peered at me, fear etched across her stance. Yura stood in the doorway, rage flashing in her eyes.

"Little bitch," she said. "You're beneath me." She shoved past me.

Ayame lifted her eyebrows at me and scoffed before she followed Yura. Shiori murmured, "That was unwise," as she passed.

The next batch of clients, I realized, were all enamored of Yura. I also realized she was talking about me as she leaned across to one drunken man and whispered malicious into his ear. His uproarious laughter and furtive glances at me only served to make me more self-conscious. Yura repeated this with the other three guys, whose attitude toward me suddenly changed from friendly to suggestive. They repeatedly slipped their arms about my waist and tried to grope me; Ayame and Shiori ignored it, while Yura looked on with cruel satisfaction.

Eventually, I pushed one of them off. "I'm sorry, but I only allow those men who know me better to treat me so," I told them, playing up my role.

"Really?" the would-be-molester said in disbelief. "Yura mentioned your past career as a streetwalker…."

I froze. "What?"

"I thought I recognized you from somewhere, too!" the man claimed, his hand sliding over my thigh.

I rose and left the room.

Sango found me in tears at my dressing table, having torn off my wig and still standing in my three-inch shoes. I was on the verge of tears—no one had ever touched me like that before, not even those few boyfriends I'd had through high school. She stopped my hands as I fumbled with the makeup I was trying to pack.

"You have to deal with it," she said, harshly, plainly. "Groping isn't uncommon—there are ways of stopping it. Strategies—"

"It wasn't just that," I told her. "It was Yura—telling them I was a whore."

Sango sighed. She lifted a package of tissues. "Cry all you want in private. But don't show it out there. Don't show it to your clients, to the men. Don't show it to Yura."

"I'm not planning to," I retorted. I accepted the package and pulled out a tissue. I cried a little. "I'm not cut out for this job anyway."

"Don't say that—if you leave, you'll be letting her win."

"I don't care if she wins!" I blew my nose. "I just don't want to go through that."

"You can't go, Kagome. Remember? Miroku forwarded you two week's pay. At least work back that much…" Sango paused for a moment. Then she leaned forward and hugged me. "Life is shitty like that," she said. "You have to learn to be strong enough to deal, strong enough that they can't push you down. You're not going to let them win, are you, Kagome? You're going to show them. You'll do better than they ever thought you will."

I knew she wasn't talking about me—she was applying those words on someone else. Still, it was comforting; I hadn't been hugged since I left home. I hugged her back. "Thank you."

Just before midnight, my shift was over. I took off my heels and washed my face amid the buzz of the laughter of the hostesses. As I patted myself dry, I looked up to see Miroku leading Yura into her personal dressing room. How could he, I wonder, when he knows who she was? A couple minutes later, however, he left with a burning expression. As he walked out the back door, he caught Sango by the wrist and pulled her out.

Shiori came up to me. "See?" she said to me privately. "They're some of the most pressured, twisted people I know, but they still make it through the day. Hang in there, Kagome."

Yura exited her room in a gorgeous gown. She barely looked at me when she walked by, except to smile derisively. Shiori scoffed as soon as Yura exited to the parlor. "She's going to meet the bigshot entrepreneur, Okami Kouga. Just because he likes her company doesn't mean anything, but she treats it like it does…."

I stopped her. "I don't care about Yura," I asserted again. "I just want to work for two weeks, pay off my debt, and see where I go from there."

Shiori blinked. "Whatever suits you," she said. She obviously wanted to grouse more on Yura.

I thought, as I adjusted my sweater and pulled on my overcoat, that the easiest way to go through the next two weeks is to avoid the turmoil of the nightlife society. I was a visitor; this was a last resort. I'd stay in the shallows, instead of condemning myself to being sucked down by the current by wading out to deep water.

I decided this as I watched Sango come in again, dismayed. Miroku followed after a few minutes, his lapel wet. He seemed resolved, resolute. He cast a look over at me and nodded reassuringly. I didn't feel reassured—I felt more intent on remaining pure, unblemished by this foray into the red-light district, what they sometimes called the floating world.

I thought I would stay out of drama. I was sure of it.

That was before I met Mama-san.


	5. Chasing Phantoms

**4:  
****Chasing Phantoms**

**- **

_Damn_, Kouga thought, lighting up a cigarette and scowling, _that Kikyou is one hard-talking bitch_.

The meeting was just about over when he said he needed a breather and came out onto the roof for a breath of fresh air and nicotine fumes. She had come with a silent, note-taking agent and taken hold of the meeting immediately, until it became, in the end, a struggle of will between Sesshoumaru and her. Two hundred thousand yen, she'd demanded. A two hundred thousand yen donation from the board of Wolf Cosmetics in an anonymous name to her institution of choice within the next month, or she wouldn't work at all.

Kouga was immediately pissed out of his skull. It wasn't enough that Taisho Sesshoumaru demanded one hundred thousand up front, but now this wench wanted _double_ that, on no more than a promise of a contract? If Miroku had not restrained him, he would have rejected her in a minute and went to find a less _bitchy_ model to work with. Two fucking hundred thousand. He had that, but it would really stretch his budget. Goddammit, if Inuyasha doesn't come back soon—

Sesshoumaru had assessed the girl, attempting to talk her down. It resulted in him chucking a plastic ashtray at the wall, on the edge of murder. That Kikyou had only compressed her lips, not in the least bit frightened—or even impressed—at his outburst. Miroku sat in the whole thing with this ridiculous look on his face, as if he was trying not to laugh and cry at the same time.

_Shit_, Kouga thought. _Shit, they didn't know what they were getting into_.

They'd conceded the two hundred thousand dollars in the last, and now they were drawing up the clauses of the six-month contract. That Kikyou better be worth it, Kouga growled to himself. She better bring in money by the truckloads, or Kami-willing, he'd choke those diamonds she eats for breakfast, lunch, and dinner out of her with his own bare hands.

A whirl caught the air, of long plates spinning at high speeds through the air. Wind pushed Kouga's long hair into his face; he looked up to see a bright red helicopter come gently down on the specifically designed helicopter platform on the roof of Lupe Tower. _About time_, he glared. _Inuyasha's back._

The cogs in his mind, dulled by nicotine and wrath, suddenly cranked into action again.

Inuyasha's back.

And Sesshoumaru is still in the meeting room, seething with anger.

_Ah, shiiiiiiiit_.

Kouga practically tore his way back into the stairwell and down the two flights of stairs to the meeting-floor. Sesshoumaru, Miroku, and the Kikyou girl were standing together just outside of the door, shaking hands solemnly. The look on Milord's face told Kouga all he needed to know.

"The dog has come home," he hissed to Miroku as he brushed past him.

"You've all come to an arrangement, right?" he grinned at the girl, raising his eyebrow suggestively. Kikyou shot a look of contempt back. "Can I take a look?"

"It's being finalized by the lawyers as we speak," she told him. "I expect that check in my hand exactly fourteen days from now."

_Two weeks? Bitch was delusional. _"I don't know if we—" Kouga said.

"We've already conceded it—two weeks," Sesshoumaru cut in. Though a stranger to him would think he was merely stating a fact, Kouga's sensitive ears picked up on the undercurrent of deep resentment in his clipped tone. Kouga's sensitive ears also picked up on running in the stairwell just behind him.

Miroku, catching Kouga's eye, began to rush the goodbyes. "Thank you, Kikyou; we will be in touch." He nodded the go-ahead to his lupine partner, and the latter, president of Wolf Cosmetics, offered Sesshoumaru the door back into the meeting room.

"Milord, lead me through the arrangement we've come up with," he said, practically herding the other in. "Kikyou, thank you for coming."

"I wish I could say it was pleasurable," she said icily, approaching the open elevator.

The door at the end of the hall burst open. Kouga slammed the meeting room door shut and hoped to dear god Miroku had already pressed the down button on the elevator. He heard the sound of sprinting, which a minute later shifted to pounding as the elevator dinged closed. "_Wait! Wait! Kikyou!_" came muffled through the heavy wood. "_KI—!_"

"Will you mind telling me," Sesshoumaru said, his eyebrow quirked and his hand gathering a fistful of Kouga's _Armani_ suit, "what the fuck is going on here? Is that my bastard brother out there? What was he calling?"

"Ki—Kickass! He was calling, Kick Ass, because he's just gotten back, and he wants to kick Miroku's ass."

"He's somehow associated with that model, isn't he?"

"It's not important, Sesshoumaru, it really isn't. What's important is that you don't scare him away, that instead we—that is you, me, and Miroku—can make sure to keep him here long enough to transfer funds to Wolf Cosmetics, attend a few functions, and sign the final agreements that give Miroku and I more of his stock, so that Inuyasha can go run off to South America with nobility or whatever he does in his free time without disturbing the functioning of Wolf Cosmetics!"

"You gave him stocks? Smart move." Sesshoumaru lit a cigar, loosening his grip on Kouga's suit.

"We didn't give it to him, he bough—" Kouga began, exasperated, but stopped still when Sesshoumaru held up an imperious and in front of his face, slowly letting out a lungful of Havana-cigar-smoke.

"I don't give a shit," he said quietly. Outside, they could still hear the sometimes-shrill yells of Inuyasha and a reasonable murmur that must have been Miroku. "How long do we have to detain him?"

"As long as it takes." At Sesshoumaru's glare, Kouga quickly reassessed his decision. "One month, tops. Maybe two months if we're unlucky."

"Good. And I want a share of the stock, no strings."

"Done."

"_You're telling me __**that **__wasn't Kikyou?" _Inuyasha's muffled voice cut into the room.

"Kickass, eh?" Sesshoumaru let a stoic stare fall on Kouga. Before the President of Wolf Cosmetics could reply, he'd taken another puff of his cigar and gave a languid roll of one shoulder. "I couldn't care less about whatever little insignificant problems my brother has with models. As long as it does not work against me, I won't interfere... which is something you seem to be terrified of."

"Terrified? Who do you think I am?" Kouga bristled.

Sesshoumaru sneered.

The door to the room burst open and Inuyasha stormed in. He then paused, took in the two, who for purely explicable reasons were standing quite close to one another, and lifted his eyebrows with a long whistle. "Didn't know you swung that way, bro," was all he said before he retreated, closing the door behind him.

The cigar fell on the floor, crushed in two.

A heartbeat of ominous silence reigned.

Then, with quite an unbecoming snarl, Taisho Sesshoumaru launched himself out of the meeting room at his younger brother.

-

"It was your own fault, Inuyasha," said Miroku, trying to look sympathetic and hide his amusement at the same time. "You provoked him."

"He didn't have to _punch_ me so hard!" the latter said, holding a slice of raw meat to his eye. "That was so bloody painful… the asshole."

"You insulted Milord's sense of dignity. You've lived with him for seventeen years; you should know better by now." Miroku pulled out another small bag of ice from the cooler and handed it to his best friend. "You should be glad I got you into my limo before he managed to skin you alive with his fingernails."

"Damn, his fingernails are long."

"You'll be sore in the morning," Miroku said with a quiet chuckle.

"…So you're serious, man? That wasn't Kikyou I saw?"

"No, that was a doppelganger we had come in for comparing what color would look best on Kikyou when we do the big ad for her."

"I haven't seen her in eight weeks—dammit, eight weeks!"

"She broke up with you?"

"Mmmph."

"…Okay."

Inuyasha stopped slumping and sat forward in his chair, suddenly sobered. "Look I just need to get her back. I just need to get in contact with her. You can do it for me, can't you? Can't you?"

"No. I can't. You have to do it. Come to our meetings—don't be late. Come to our press conferences. Make deals with Kouga. I can't help you with this." Miroku crossed his legs and regarded Inuyasha under his lowered eyelashes, pressing his lips into a thin line.

"Why not?"

"…You messed your own love life up. Hell, you messed your _life_ up. She's a _sweet_, _sweet_ looking girl, with sweet curve… Okay! Sorry! God, didn't know you were so touchy about her."

"Shut up. I think I'm in love with her."

Silence.

A conniving look snug its way onto the contours of Miroku's smile. The statement had shocked him—after all, Inuyasha wasn't even in his late twenties—but he was always one for landing back on his feet, and quickly. "I think you're just fooling yourself. Let me introduce you to the doppelganger, and you'll realize you weren't really in love with _Kikyou_. Her name is Kiki, actually, and she works for me…."


	6. Superstar

**5:**

**Superstar**

Mama-san wasn't human.

That makeup—those eyes—that hair—the _voice_.

"That's not a woman, that's an oni," I muttered to Sango at the back of the club as Mama-san gave us a stern lecture about _pillow business_. Apparently a hostess had been seen walking out of a love-hotel the other day, in character. ("In character" meant, apparently, in the dress and gait of the person they were imitating.)

Sango, who leaned against one of the ceiling supports, arched her eyebrow. "The walls have ears, _Kiki_."

Right. But no one could hear me anyway over that _person's _screeching.

When they had first warned me about Mama-san, I'd envisioned an older woman, expertly made up, a matron tottering in a tight kimono, iron-willed behind an obliging manner. Instead, I met a harridan that looked like the wolf in Grandma's clothing. Was that a wig? And the grossly mismatched eyeshadow and lipstick—I couldn't believe that we had to take orders from her, that she was entrusted with our health and well-beings. Perhaps she was the ethical backbone of the enterprise—the heart of the club.

Mama-san swatted the hostess being shamed in front of the entire club with her lacquered fan. The young girl began to cry, a red mark materializing on the side of her face.

No, perhaps not.

When the spectacle was over, it was time for work. I had a special party to entertain that night, Sango told me. As I sat down at the white-hot mirrors to apply makeup and fix my long, dark wig, I saw Mama-san tottering over, a caricature of a proper Japanese lady.

"Kiki, welcome," she said archly. "I see that Miroku-san has gotten you well situated already… you'll be seeing him again tonight." She looked down her nose at me through narrowed, darkly mascara'd eyes, scanning my face and body. "You do bear some little resemblance to the model, just as Miroku said," she said, trying to be warm, but I heard something poisonous in her tone as well. Over her shoulder, Satori blanched.

"It's really the only reason he even noticed me," I said, trying to sound modest.

"Hmm," she sniffed, "no doubt about that."

I felt myself recoil a little, but Mama-san did not even notice. Her talons digging into my shoulder, she turned me forcefully back to face the mirror and carefully ran a comb through my wig. "Take off your lipstick and substitute a light rose one," she barked. "I see you didn't put on a perfume yet—use this one. Miroku-san is arriving with a couple special guests tonight. They are his business partners. Ayame will entertain Kouga, and you will concentrate on entertaining Inuyasha."

_Was that _the_ Inuyasha? _

"Be sweet, but not overly so. Try not to talk about modeling or relationships. You should try to ask him as many questions as you can, and keep him talking and keep him drinking."

_Miroku was business partners with the most famous short-distance Olympic silver medalist in Japan?_

"Above all," commanded Mama-san, shoving her face next to mine in the mirror, "be warm."

x.x.x

Yeah, I was warm. One might say, even a little heated.

Ayame, Satori, and I were shown into the largest room in the establishment. The three men already crowded there, having poured each other small cups of sake. Miroku, dressed in a purple shirt and black tie, loosened it the moment we walked into the room. He spotted me in the back, quickly glanced at my knee-length dress, and winked.

Ayame and Kouga obviously were already familiar with each other; they quickly fell into conversation, a rough and tumble flirtation that involved a lot of jostling. Satori joined Miroku shyly, half-teasing him by sitting just far enough away that he had to move to hear her speak. That left the last guest to me.

_Why me?_

When I finally looked at the legendary Inuyasha, I realized he had been staring at me since I came into the room. I smiled immediately, half out of nervousness. "Welcome, Inuyasha-san," I said gently. "Is this your first time here?"

He didn't say anything, only stared at me. His eyes were red already, bloodshot from the alcohol. I hesitated when he didn't reply to my first overture and decided to refill his sake. He stopped me, clumsily, putting a meaty hand on my wrist.

"Kikyou, where have you been?" he said, a whinge stealing into his voice.

"My name is Kiki," I said, once again gently. This had happened to be a couple times already, when confused clients confused me at first sight with the object of their dreams, but it never bothered me quite as much before now. None of the others had acted as if they were familiar with me, as if they knew me.

"You don't return my calls, you don't answer your email, you aren't there when I show up with flowers at your door… you didn't move, did you?"

Oh, shit… what'd I get myself into? Suddenly I realized why they had tapped me to accompany Inuyasha that night. "No, no," I said comfortingly, hearing my voice come out strained and stilted. Inuyasha made a move to grab me again, but I wrestled my wrist away. On the other side of the room, Miroku was watching intently. "No, and I don't consider it very nice for you to keep being so pushy."

That was the wrong thing to say. Inuyasha drew back as if he'd sobered up. "Pushy? Pushy? You were the one that slapped me." He drew close, looking deep into my face; a look of comprehension dawned. _Finally,_ I thought with a sign of relief_, he realizes I'm not her_.

"I'm so sorry," he said, still inches away from my face. "I'm so sorry for not understanding."

Miroku seemed to get even tenser, while the other one—Kouga—bared his canines in amusement.

"I didn't realize that you just needed your space. Kikyou—"

"I'm not Kikyou! My name is _Kiki_."

"Right. Right, sorry. Kiki, or whatever you want to be called now…" Suddenly he turned away. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that he had gotten the picture.

"Inuyasha's not very good at holding his liquor," drawled Kouga, his arm slung casually around Ayame. "Why don't we order some appetizers?"

We put in some orders for sashimi and takoyaki; I accepted the order from the maid and put it down on the low table at the center of the room. Inuyasha nursed his own bottle of sake. No one was offering to pour it for him, and when I noticed Ayame and Satori looking at me pointedly, I heaved a heavy sigh and pried it out of his hands. "Let me help you, Inuyasha-san," I said decorously, tipping the alcohol into his cup. I had trained for this moment a thousand times with Satori watching over me.

Inuyasha made a grab for his sake. "I don't need your help, you selfish bitch," he shot back. At this totally uncalled-for remark, I snapped and began to pour the alcohol into his lap. The wine made a wide, darkening stain in his crotch area, and Inuyasha yelled, leaping to his feet.

"Stupid woman!"

I stared back at him, fighting my desire to look away in shame. Half of me was appalled at losing my temper like that, and the other half wanted to laugh at the poor man, wiping himself with flimsy paper napkins.

Miroku looked falsely contrite. "What a terrible accident!" he commiserated.

"That was no accident, that was all _her fault_—the clumsy, evil…"

I interrupted his tirade. "Even if it wasn't me," I told Inuyasha, my voice dripping with venom, "you would've done something stupid like that anyway. You're a terrible drunk." Then I rose, gathered my small purse, promptly walked out of the room.

When I had closed the door to the private room and was certain no one could see me, I basically ran to the back to hightail it out of there. When I had gotten to the staff area, I grabbed a bucket of baby wipes and began scrubbing off my painted face. After that little show, I thought, quietly unhappy, there was no way they would keep me on as a hostess here. I rummaged in my little area, grabbing the few jars of makeup I had brought with me to the club.

"What are you doing?"

I whipped around, startled. "Sango!"

"You're out early…" She took one calculated look at the expression on my face and the toiletries I held tightly in my fingers. "Oh come on, you insulted Inuyasha?"

"He is a little bit of an idiot," I fumed, "not that the news or magazines ever show it. He didn't even get the point of this club, and kept calling me Kikyou. When I tried to be nice to him, he called me selfish, stupid, evil—a _bitch…_" I faltered, trying to hide how shaken I was. None of the other clients had ever crossed the line as much as he had that night.

"His temper is famous," Sango replied, "and I agree with you, he is an idiot. More than just a little bit. But he is also Miroku's best friend and business partner. And he is also Kikyou's ex-boyfriend."

Well that made sense. "You're implying—"

"Those names he called you were directed at Kikyou, not at you. He was too drunk to know what was going on. Don't take it to heart, Kagome."

Hearing my name for the first time within the walls of the club, I felt a little sob escape from my throat. It was stifling being Kiki all the time, around these catty, shallow women and providing conversation to fat old men who would pal around with me as if they knew me. I wanted to go back to being just Kagome, a student with incredible amounts of debt.

"They're not going to keep me around, are they?" I finally asked. "After pouring sake into his lap and calling him a terrible drunk." I thought of the prospect of living without the host club and settling my debts some other way, and felt a strange tide of relief wash over me.

"You poured sake into his lap?" Sango smirked. "Good for you! Probably he's met thousands of women who wanted to do exactly that."

"And a couple who have done exactly that before." A masculine voice broke in from the end of the corridor. Still clutching my jars and tubes to my chest, I turned to see Miroku heading toward us. "What a performance, Kiki."

"Miroku-san," I acknowledged, not knowing what to do. Sango guided me back toward the desk and had me put down the things I had snatched up unthinkingly. "I'm sorry about everything that happened in there!"

"No, don't apologize," he said, a belly-laugh escaping from him. "Inuyasha's not mad at all. Well, actually he is, but it isn't real anger. You see, you've done exactly what you were hired to do. One of those people who has doused him in sake was Kikyou, his former lover."

_Her again_. "Shouldn't that make him angry at me, if she's his _former_ girlfriend?"

"Inuyasha… has a long memory." Miroku smiled disarmingly. "And he himself knows he's a terrible drunk. It's one of the reasons why Kikyou left him."

Sango whistled. "You're sure revealing a lot, Miroku-san."

The suave man ran a hand through his luscious black hair and smiled disarmingly at Sango. "I can't help it when in the presence of beautiful women." To my surprise, Sango scowled back and turned away from him.

"Anyway, this is all within the public domain," said Miroku, returning to business. "You haven't done anything wrong at all, though perhaps in the future if he slips up and calls you Kikyou, you should let him. He isn't the brightest bulb in the shack, you know."

"You're not firing me?" I said, aghast.

"Why would I? You've been a superstar so far." Miroku winked at me. "I'll see you again soon." He then made as if to say something to Sango, but the guard had her face turned to the side, nose pointed toward the ceiling fan. Raising his hands as if not knowing what to do, Miroku spun on his heels and left the way he came, waving goodbye to us as he walked.

"I guess I can put this all away again," I said, reluctantly. Sango nodded, and began to help me. When we were done, she took a comb and readjusted my long straight wig.

"Do you perm your real hair?" she asked.

"No, it's naturally a little wavy," I said. "I wish I had long straight hair like Kikyou, who must find it so easy to cut and take care of."

Sango smiled at me in the mirror. When she smiled, she was breathtakingly pretty. I wanted to tell her that, but she beat me to the punch. "The grass is always greener on the other side, Kiki."

From beyond the staff door I began to hear the sound of high voices chattering. So the entertainment was over for the night, and the two others were coming back to join me. I rose, trying to think of what I would say to them, and Sango retreated to the door, where she slumped down on her chair and returned her attention to a little mountain of security videos in front of her. Before the door opened and I had to speak to the people who witnessed my little mishap, a chilly perfume invaded my airspace.

"I see Miroku-san was encouraging you," said Mama-san archly. A look of cunning sharpened her little eyes.

"Just assuring me that mistakes are common for rookies," I replied.

"Hmm. Be wary of that man. He isn't all he seems." Mama-san tried to smile warmly at me, but the effect was a little maniacal.

"Who—Inuyasha?" I asked, knowing I wouldn't like the answer.

"No, Miroku."

Before I could ask her more, Satori and Ayame broke in, their heads suddenly bending away from each others'. "Mama-san. Kagome."

"What's the news?"

They looked at each other again dubiously. "The three said they had a great time, and want to come back again, same time next week."

My heart dropped. So that's what Miroku meant about seeing me soon.

"Well," muttered Mama-san intently into her fan. "Well, well, well."


End file.
